


get us right (quitters never win)

by blooms



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superpowers, Depression, Empath Patrick Stump, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Telepath Pete Wentz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooms/pseuds/blooms
Summary: Pete is just so vivid. Most of the time emotions come to Patrick abstractly—happy, sad, embarrassed, whatever. Sure, people he’s close to might have empathetic signatures—like, a lot of times his brother sounds like an orchestra, or his sister’s emotions come to him in colors, or his mom feels like fire (usually a homey hearth, but he’s felt how hot she can rage and how protective she can burn)—but Pete showed up on Patrick’s doorstep a complete stranger and felt like an overgrown forest, and he’s been loud and wildly inconsistent imagery ever since.(an AU where everything's the same, but they have superpowers)
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 64





	get us right (quitters never win)

**Author's Note:**

> i was looking at my old wips and this has been sitting pretty much finished since 2017 but i never posted it for some reason? i still like it so here it is!

Patrick stands in front of the bus door, arms crossed. Pete, shifting his feet in front of him, is allegedly about to go on a Starbucks run, but seeing as Pete’s been avoiding Patrick for most of the past two weeks and feeling guilty as shit the rest of the time, he’s skeptical of Pete’s motives.

“Okay,” Patrick says, “what did you do?”

“What?” Pete gives him a too-wide grin. His fingers tug on the worn sleeves of his hoodie, a familiar nervous tic. Inside him, storm clouds gather—nervousness or panic, tensely coiled. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says. “You’ve been feeling guilty for the past two weeks. If it’s something serious, can you tell me now before it blows up in our faces?”

Even as he knows Pete wouldn’t be so hung up over something so small, he’s been overturning piles of dirty clothes in the bus in hopes of finding a broken mug or scratched CD. He even carefully scrolled through all the GarageBand files on his laptop, which Pete doesn’t—shouldn’t—even know the password for. But everything was fine there too. So what is the problem, and why doesn’t he want Patrick to know?

Pete’s panic unleashes in a crash of thunder in Patrick’s chest. It makes Patrick want to curl up on the floor. He curls his hand into a fist instead, digs his nails into his palm to distract from it.

Pete is just so vivid. Most of the time emotions come to Patrick abstractly—happy, sad, embarrassed, whatever. Sure, people he’s close to might have empathetic signatures—like, a lot of times his brother sounds like an orchestra, or his sister’s emotions come to him in colors, or his mom feels like fire (usually a homey hearth, but he’s felt how hot she can rage and how protective she can burn)—but Pete showed up on Patrick’s doorstep a complete stranger and felt like an overgrown forest, and he’s been loud and wildly inconsistent imagery ever since.

After years of being around Pete, there are some recurring themes, though. Rain is one of them—_we need umbrellas on the inside_. Or Pete does. Or Patrick does, since he’s the one feeling Pete’s emotions that way. It’s confusing.

Pete clears his throat, flicks his eyes away. “It’s not going to affect the band.”

“Are you sure,” Patrick says, “because you’re being loud.” _Really fucking loud_, he thinks, just short of mentally shouting the words, _and I’m tired of the bullshit._

Pete winces. “That loud?”

“Yeah. So, what did you do?”

Pete exhales noisily through his nose. It doesn’t do anything to stop the storm clouds rolling through him, the downpour of fear and guilt. It makes Patrick’s chest ache, and he closes his eyes for a second.

“Pete.”

“Sorry.” Pete’s whispering now, as if to offset the loudness of his emotions. His arms are wrapped around himself and his shoulders are up to his ears.

Patrick has an impression of a rotting shipwreck, broken up on jagged rocks, and he’s torn between whacking Pete upside the head until he tells him why he feels so wretched, and hugging him until nothing hurts anymore.

Pete won’t look at him. “I’m trying, but it just makes me feel worse about the whole thing, and—” He cuts off.

“So tell me,” Patrick says. “What, do you need me to promise not to be mad? I’ll forgive you, okay?”

Patrick will forgive Pete for a scary amount of things. Patrick knows this abstractly, in that he knows it might be a problem one day, but he hasn’t done anything about it because it hasn’t been a problem yet.

And Pete feels so shitty right now that it doesn’t matter what he did. If only to feel his relieved warmth, Patrick will forgive him.

“Not this time,” Pete says.

He pushes past Patrick and steps out of the bus. Patrick considers stopping him, but before he can reach out to grab his arm and demand answers, Pete’s guilt is drowned out by a wave of self-loathing that has Patrick clutching the doorframe.

Pete never feels any emotion by halves, and Patrick never feels any of Pete’s emotions by halves. Patrick can keep most emotional feedback to a quiet, ever-present buzz at the back of his mind, but Pete cuts through that like nothing, like Patrick is an untrained kid again feeling everything unfiltered, too much. For a moment, he can’t breathe.

“Sorry,” Pete says, wincing. “I’ll try to be quieter.”

He turns and leaves in a jog before Patrick can sort the words out.

_Or you could just tell me, fucker_, Patrick thinks after him, but Pete doesn’t turn back.

* * *

Pete avoids Patrick for the rest of the day. He shows up in time for soundcheck but he hangs off of Joe the entire time, even well into the show.

It’s not just the physical absence that’s getting to him. Patrick relies on the emotional feedback of his bandmates to get through shows; they’re steady and familiar, and they won't judge him if he messes up. He can’t block the audience out all the way, but if he focused on them, he would be overwhelmed completely.

Not to mention his stage fright, which is only marginally better now that they’re touring their third album.

Tonight, Joe is an amp turned up to eleven, an uncontained electric current that seems to run through the floor of the stage and through Patrick’s entire body. Andy’s reliable beat resonates in Patrick’s chest, controlled but for the underlying frenetic energy betraying how into it he really is. But Pete—Pete is subdued, his emotions muddled and washed-out, like he’s forcing himself to feel nothing.

* * *

Whatever’s wrong—and it doesn’t make sense for Pete to feel guilty if that’s the case, but what else could it be?—Patrick’s beginning to fear that it’s his fault.

* * *

“It’s not your fault,” Pete says morosely when they’re back on the bus. He throws his cell phone at Joe, who’s curled up in front of the TV, game controller in hand. “Hey, charge my phone.”

“Ow, fucker!” Joe frowns, but Patrick can tell he’s more amused than angry, fond and exasperated at once. Patrick knows the feeling. “What, lose your charger again?”

“Dude, I don’t know what happens to them,” Pete says, waving his hands around. “They just disappear.”

“Whatever.” Joe sets the phone on his stomach and focuses his attention on the Trohman-powered TV in front of him. His emotions are a low buzz right now, weary and content after a good show.

“Is it charging?” Pete asks.

“Yes, dick.”

Patrick smiles at the antics, but there’s still a tightness in his chest he can’t stave off, and Pete casts a worried eye on him.

But Pete’s already shown that he doesn’t want to talk about it and Patrick is tired and doesn’t really want to, either. He touches Pete’s wrist and shuffles past him, heading for the bunks. They can just lie down together like they always do, and it’ll be fine—well, it won’t be fine, but as long as Pete doesn’t want to tell him what’s wrong, it’ll have to be enough.

Pete does want to talk, though. He just doesn’t have the answers Patrick wants. “Look, it’s not your fault,” Pete tries again when they’re standing in the little corridor, their bunks on either side of them, and Patrick snaps.

“Well, I must have fucked something up if you can’t even get near me without feeling bad.”

The guilt is back, roaring loud enough to make Patrick’s ears ring.

“It’s not always about you,” Pete spits back.

Patrick can’t help the frustration, the impatient little _fuck you_ that goes off in his mind, and Pete recoils, bringing his arms up over his chest and hunching in on himself. The self-loathing is loud and clattering, like a train running along the tracks.

Patrick sighs. “Pete, come on, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” Pete mumbles, not looking at him.

“I wouldn’t have said it,” Patrick says. “I’m sorry I lost my cool for one second, okay? Just—fucking look at me. Please.”

Pete peers sullenly at Patrick through his bangs and Patrick schools his voice to be soft when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Pete shrugs, and it’s times like these Patrick wants to remind Pete he’s not a mind-reader, that he can’t give Pete what he wants if he doesn’t know what that is. And that of course he’ll give Pete what he wants because they’re _best friends_, for God’s sake, Patrick would take a bullet for him.

Luckily, Pete _is_ a mind-reader, so Patrick doesn’t have to say any of that out loud. Talking about feelings, talking about anything that really matters is a lot harder than it has any right to be, so Patrick can appreciate it when Pete swallows and says, “I get scared you won’t want me as your friend anymore, because… I mean, I’m scared you’ll wake up and realize I’m no good.”

Patrick hugs him. _I love you, stupid_, he thinks, forcefully. Hot relief flashes through Pete, and happiness, and love, and it feels so nice Patrick thinks it again and hugs him tighter.

“Love you,” Pete whispers, breath tickling Patrick’s ear.

Patrick knows. Pete isn’t shy in his affections, and Patrick likes feeling Pete’s love directed at him. It’s warm and genuine and makes Patrick really feel like he may have something in him worth loving.

Pete makes a doleful little noise and pushes his face against Patrick’s neck.

“You’re amazing.”

Pete’s lips brush against his skin. Patrick shivers.

They stand quietly like that for a few moments, and then Pete whispers, haltingly, “Can you say it. Out loud.”

Patrick bites his lip. He doesn’t have to ask Pete what he means. “Why?”

Pete shrugs as much as he can while they’re still wrapped up around each other. “Makes it feel real.”

“It is real,” Patrick says, but really he’s stalling. “I love you,” he says, pushing the words out in a single rush, ignores the way his heart flips. “You’re my best friend.”

For a moment, Patrick’s just washed over with _love love love_ from Pete, and it makes his chest ache a little because Pete loves him so much and yet some selfish part of Patrick still has the gall to demand more. He wants to drain Pete dry.

Then he realizes that there's a strange feedback loop to the achy feeling, that it's from Pete as much as Patrick himself and shit, why is Pete still upset? Is he picking something up from Patrick?

“You're a good friend, Patrick,” Pete says, and Patrick’s chest twinges—him or Pete, he's not even sure, Patrick always feels Pete’s emotions so close, tangled up in his own. But it doesn’t matter, because Pete sidesteps around Patrick and disappears from the bus.

* * *

Patrick wakes up and he can’t breathe. There’s a cinderblock on his chest, pinning him to his bed, holding him underwater. He closes his eyes again and groans.

“Pete?” he calls softly. Even talking feels like too much effort right now.

A muffled “fuck” from Pete’s bunk is all the answer he needs.

“Should I go over?” Patrick asks even though he really, really doesn’t want to move, and even though he’s already made his mind up anyway.

“You should probably just go,” Pete says dully through the curtains and space between them.

“You feel like shit, I’m not going to—” Patrick pushes himself up and drags himself out of his bunk. “I’m coming over.”

Pete doesn’t protest, but when Patrick pushes the curtain over his bunk back, he has his face buried in his pillow.

“Episodes suck enough without subjecting you to them, too.”

Pete’s an awful contradiction, hates being alone when he’s depressed, but also hates everyone’s company besides Patrick’s—and then hates making Patrick feel as bad as he does. Patrick would rather Pete not be alone, so until Pete decides he can stand someone else’s company when he feels rotten, he’s stuck with Patrick.

“Tough,” Patrick says, not bothering to elaborate. Pete already knows exactly how Patrick feels about this anyway.

“Noooo,” Pete whines. “I feel shitty. I don’t want you to feel shitty.”

“And I don’t want you to feel shitty by yourself,” Patrick replies, hauling himself into Pete’s bunk.

Pete pouts, but scoots closer to the wall to make more room for Patrick; pointless, because the moment Patrick settles in and drapes an arm over Pete, Pete’s closing any space between them and burying his face in Patrick’s chest, messy black hair tickling Patrick’s chin.

“I hate that I’m like this,” Pete says into Patrick’s shirt.

Patrick makes a soft noise in his throat and rubs Pete’s back. “It’s not your fault.”

“Fucking shitty fucked up brain.”

Patrick wishes he knew what to say. Even though he can feel what Pete’s feeling, he’ll never understand what it’s like in Pete’s head, especially during these times. And even though the feeling—void of feeling, almost, a black hole in his chest—sucks, he’s still just concerned for Pete. Patrick just wants to be able to help make Pete better, but he doesn’t know how.

“I’m a fucking lost cause,” Pete says. “You should just dump me before it’s too late.” There’s a twinge of almost-feeling at the words, the pluck of an out-of-tune string, but it’s overpowered by the deafening nothing.

“No one’s dumping you, Pete,” Patrick says.

Pete makes a humming noise, low in his throat, and his fingers dig into Patrick’s back.

A few minutes later, minutes spent lying together in silence, Patrick realizes that Pete is gradually beginning to feel _worse_.

“Pete?” Patrick whispers.

“Mm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s not wrong?” Pete shoots back sullenly.

“No, but—” Patrick bites his lip. “But you’re feeling worse and I don’t know how to help.”

“You’re too nice to me.” Pete presses his forehead against Patrick’s chest. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“Hey,” Patrick says, “hey, no. _Pete_.”

God, he’s never been good with words. That’s always been Pete’s thing. Patrick just needs to show Pete somehow.

“Let me—can I try something?” Patrick asks.

Pete makes an inquisitive noise.

“An empath thing,” Patrick says. “It probably won’t work.” But then again, it probably will, statistics be damned. Only a few empaths have been reported to be able to influence the emotional states of others, but Patrick is just so in tune with Pete, the thought of it not working is inconceivable.

“Um, okay,” Pete says, clearly having no idea what to expect. “Hit me.”

Patrick considers, then snakes a hand under Pete’s shirt, resting his palm against Pete’s bare chest, above his heart.

Pete shivers a little—Patrick’s hand is probably cold—and his heartbeat stutters beneath Patrick’s palm. “Patrick?”

“Shut up for a sec,” Patrick says, closing his eyes, and he concentrates on all the love and affection he has for Pete, tries to direct it _to_ Pete, because he doesn’t know how to tell him, but maybe he can show him that this, this is how Pete makes him feel, this is how much he loves Pete, and he’ll keep loving him like this no matter what.

Pete gasps, a sharp, shaky little inhalation. “Patrick…”

Patrick blinks his eyes open. He’s full up on love for Pete, all brought to the surface and exposed, he can’t get a clear read on Pete’s emotions. “Is it...” _Working? Okay? Helping?_ He doesn’t know how he wants to end his sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“Yeah,” Pete breathes. “I mean, I still feel pretty shitty, but it’s also, like, warmer? And—my head doesn’t feel so heavy.”

“Good,” Patrick says, sliding his hand out from Pete’s shirt and gathering Pete close, still focusing on projecting his feelings onto Pete.

Pete sighs and relaxes into him. Patrick waits, counting in his head, and a few minutes later Pete’s breathing evens out. He’s not asleep, though, Patrick can tell. There are empathic cues—the emotions Patrick senses are a lot duller, fuzzier when someone is asleep—but Patrick knows because there’s a tenseness to Pete’s shoulders that means he’s still awake, and maybe wants to say something but isn’t sure how.

Patrick waits, and eventually Pete cuts through the silence with his soft voice: “Patrick, are you in love with me?”

It’s Patrick’s turn to tense up. He can’t get a good read on Pete, doesn’t know if he’s feeling afraid or hopeful or whatever else as he waits for Patrick’s answer. Patrick has kind of forgotten how to breathe, though, so all he can manage is a tight, “Yep.”

There’s a moment of nothingness, like free-falling, or teetering on the edge of a precipice, wind blowing up to push him back. Then warmth rushes through Patrick all at once, relief and love and happiness like last night, but tenfold.

“Oh,” Pete says. “Me too.”

“Wait.” Patrick pushes Pete away to look down at his face. “Really?”

“Oh my God, _Patrick_,” Pete says. “I'm so in love with you, you have no idea.”

If the feelings wrapping themselves around and around Patrick like the world’s best blanket are any indication, then he has some idea. Patrick feels his own love for Pete swell, and he tries again to send that back to Pete.

Pete’s sigh is pure bliss. “How long have you known?” he asks.

Patrick blinks. “Like, forever.”

Pete nudges him with his shoulder.

“I don’t know, dude, probably around the same time I realized you were the first best friend I’ve ever had.”

There’s a small burst of surprise from Pete, breaking through the steady flow of unfiltered love. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, I had friends, but,” Patrick hedges, “none of them were, like. Close.”

Pete laughs softly. “You caught on quicker than me. I didn’t realize until two weeks ago.”

“Two we—you mean _that’s_ why you started feeling guilty as shit and avoiding me?” Patrick can’t believe this.

“Yeah, I’m a dumbass,” Pete says.

“You’ve been saying you love me since the day we met,” Patrick says, because Pete is _unprecedented_ levels of dumbass.

“Well, duh. I already knew I basically love you more than anyone in the universe. I also already knew you’re fucking gorgeous. I just didn’t realize that meant I was _in love_ with you.”

And that throws Patrick in for a loop. “Um,” he says, fighting back a blush. “You think I’m, I’m gorgeous.”

Pete presses down on Patrick’s shoulder until he’s lying on his back and Pete is peering down at him. “Hey. You are kind of ridiculously hot.”

“Looked in a mirror lately?” Patrick mutters, and feels Pete’s pleased amusement bubbling up.

“I’ll make you believe me,” Pete promises. “Can I kiss you now?”

Patrick tilts his chin up in answer, and Pete moves down to meet him.

Pete’s mouth is very soft and even warmer. Patrick presses into it, and Pete shifts a little, catches Patrick’s lower lip between his own. His tongue brushes against it, tentative, but aside from that it’s a relatively chaste kiss, if a long one. It’s lingering and sweet and leaves Patrick kind of breathless.

“Wow,” Pete whispers, a huff of breath over Patrick’s mouth.

“Wow?” Patrick’s pretty sure that was the most innocent kiss Pete’s ever had in his life.

“Yeah,” Pete says, and kisses him again, quick and soft. “You’re kind of awesome.”

Then he flops, boneless, on top of Patrick. “No moving today. Okay?”

“We should probably get up to eat or whatever,” Patrick says. “Also, Andy will worry.”

“And Joe will think we’re having sex,” Pete adds thoughtfully. “Not that I have a problem with that, but I get that you might.”

“You think I have a problem with having sex with you?” Patrick sputters. How about the _complete opposite of that. _He tries to sit up, but Pete’s heavy on him.

“No,” Pete laughs. “I think you have a problem with Joe thinking we’re having sex when really I don’t want to do shit today, except cuddle.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, deflating. “Joe can fuck off.”

“Mm,” Pete agrees, burrowing his face into Patrick’s neck.

“You can fuck off,” Joe’s cheerful voice pipes up from the other side of the curtain. “I charged your phone, asshole.”

Pete makes a groaning noise that Patrick interprets to mean _I don’t want to interact with anyone right now_ and rolls Pete off of him to stick his head out the curtain. Pete winds his arms around Patrick’s waist and pushes his face into his back.

“Pete’s not feeling well,” Patrick says, taking the phone Joe holds up. “Tell Andy?”

“‘Kay,” Joe says, understanding immediately. “Are you okay?”

Of course, Joe knows that Patrick can feel the exact ache Pete is feeling right now, and it’s true that it hurts, but Patrick finds his answer is honest: “I’m good, really, really good.”

Joe shakes his head. “You are a saint, Patrick Stump.”

“S’what I’m saying,” Pete mumbles from behind Patrick.

“We’ll stay clear,” Joe says. “You should probs eat at some point, though.”

“I’ll get food later,” Patrick says, waving Joe off.

He ducks back into bunk. Turning around takes some effort in the cramped space with Pete still clinging to him, but he manages, and he mirrors the frown he didn’t expect to see on Pete’s face. “What?”

“I don’t deserve you,” Pete says.

Patrick wants to roll his eyes, but he’s supposed to be nice when Pete is like this.

“You can keep thinking that,” Patrick says, “but I’m still gonna be here."

Pete shakes his head, wonder in his eyes, and kisses him.

They lay like that, just kissing and breathing quietly without saying anything. The feedback loop of lovelovelove settles and fades into the background, fuzzy-edged. Kissing soon turns to making out, and Patrick gets a little hard as they continue, a side-effect of the intimacy and not something he’s concerned about taking care of it until Pete slips a hand between them and palms Patrick through his sweatpants.

Patrick’s breath hitches. “I thought you didn’t want—”

“I want,” Pete whispers, mouthing at Patrick’s jaw. “If it’s okay.”

“Yeah, shit, of course,” Patrick whispers back. “Anything.”

Pete kisses him on the mouth and tugs Patrick’s sweats down along with his boxers, and Patrick kicks them off the rest of the way. He whimpers softly when Pete wraps his fingers around the base of his cock.

“Joe and Andy are off the bus,” Pete says, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You can be as loud as you want.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick hisses, and Pete laughs, squeezing gently.

The thing is, Patrick doesn’t think Pete even means to tease him. Pete kisses him softly on his lips and cheeks and neck, and he moves his hand slowly up and down Patrick’s dick with what barely qualifies as pressure, but Patrick doesn’t think Pete’s actively trying to wind him up and until he’s trembling and aching for more. Unintentional as it may be, though, he’s doing a hell of a job.

“Pete, come on,” Patrick pants.

“Sorry,” Pete says into his neck; Patrick can feel his smile. “Just can’t believe I can have this.”

“I might still change my mind if you don’t do something useful with your hand in the next five seconds,” Patrick bites out.

“You love me,” Pete says, gloating, “you can’t fool me, I _felt_ it.”

“Pete, I swear—” Patrick breaks off in a gasp as Pete finally gives him the pressure he needs.

After that it’s muffled curses intermingled with soft pleas and Pete’s name until he comes, gasping and shaking. With Pete’s erection pressing against him through his boxers, Patrick wastes no time, shuffling down on the bunk to pull the boxers off and get his mouth around Pete’s dick, and Pete lets out a broken little sound.

He kind of gets it now that it’s his turn to give, why Pete was going so slow and gentle, the sleepy-soft affection encouraging him to take his time with it. Pete breathes shallowly above him and his fingers run through Patrick’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. There is no urgency, only endless possibility and a lack of obligation promising all the time in the world, or at least all the time in today.

Soon, though, Pete begins squirming, hips jerking up until Patrick presses him down onto the bed, because he’s really not interested in testing his gag reflex right now. Patrick’s awareness—like, his literal, supernatural empathetic awareness—of Pete’s arousal is building up in a wave, and before Patrick knows it he’s half-hard again.

Pete, somewhat to Patrick’s surprise, isn’t a talker during sex, but he’s far from silent, whining and moaning shamelessly loud as Patrick steadily goes down on him, determined to maintain his pace. When his fingers tighten in Patrick’s hair, tugging urgently, Patrick pulls off, stretches up to kiss Pete and uses his hand to bring Pete the last inch over the edge. Pete comes with a shout, all over Patrick’s shirt—which should bother Patrick, but he hardly notices because the wave of arousal has exploded into white light and Patrick can’t think, can’t do anything but cling to Pete and cry out, nearly coming again just from that.

“Dude,” Pete says breathlessly when Patrick is aware of the world around him again. “Are you hard again?”

“That.” Patrick hides his face in Pete’s collar, feels his face heat up. “That usually doesn’t happen.”

Pete drops a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m just that awesome, huh?”

Patrick can hear his smug grin, and shoots back, “No, you’re just too loud,” and then, realizing what he just said, amends, “I meant your emotions, assface. Not that the other thing isn’t true, too.”

“Oh, well, I still think I’m awesome,” Pete says, then shifts them a little so his dick is lined up with Patrick’s and—

“_Oh_,” Patrick moans, but even in his sex-muddled state he can feel the distant pang of overstimulated pain from Pete. “You sure?”

Pete exhales, hot breath against Patrick’s ear, and starts moving his hips. “Yeah, I’m good.”

It’s too much, Pete’s little noises of pain-pleasure as he rubs his hypersensitive dick against Patrick’s, his hiccupy little, “oh God,” and the way his fingers slip under Patrick’s shirt and dig into the soft skin of his sides, the salty sweat Patrick tastes when he mouths Pete’s neck—it’s altogether too much, and it’s only a couple of minutes before Patrick is coming again.

“Jesus, Pete,” he says, trying to catch his breath back.

Pete is also breathing hard. “That was cool,” he says after a minute, and Patrick snorts, because only Pete would describe sex as ‘cool.’

“Don’t get used to it.” Usually Patrick can turn down the emotions from his partner when he has sex, but nothing about Pete and Patrick has ever been ‘usual.’ He’ll figure it out.

“You make my head quiet,” Pete says, apropos of nothing.

And Patrick knows how much that means. He doesn’t know how to reply, though, so he just says, “I love you.”

That makes Pete happy, and because Pete doesn’t know the definition of subtle, it feels like wedding bells. It’s kind of a punch to the gut how immediate it is, but then again, they’ve basically been dating for years. He hopes Pete knows that this doesn’t get him a free pass from asking properly, though.

“If I already know you’re going to say yes, does that mean I can do a public proposal?” Pete asks.

“No,” Patrick says, horrified. Pete would probably do something grandiose and mortifying, like write it in the sky, or recruit their friends as backup dancers. Or both. “I’m saying no if you do.”

“No, you won’t,” Pete says. “You _love_ me.”

“You can’t use that one forever. I still won’t let you do stupid shit.” Patrick sighs. “Just don’t, like, embarrass me in front of our friends and you can do whatever you want.”

Pete laughs. “I was just kidding. Well—I would have done something really awesome, but.” He kisses Patrick twice, quick and soft. “I have to share enough of you with the world. I want this one to be just for us.”

And, well, that doesn’t sound bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! :)


End file.
